Fissure

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

There is a peculiar ache in being human—
like the pull of an uneven thread in a wool sweater,
the way it catches and scratches,
a tension between the open hands of strangers
and the locked chest of your own secrets.
It is the silence of a parked car after a long drive,
engine ticking as it cools,
your thoughts louder than the night outside.

We walk through life carrying our burdens—
a canvas tote sagging with bruised apples,
receipts stuffed between pages of a novel,
forgotten but still there.
Each of us, silent keepers of truths
wrapped like glass figurines in tissue,
hidden in the attic of the heart,
too fragile or too sharp to hold for long.

Some truths are small—
the sting of a word left hanging in the air,
like smoke curling from a burnt-out match;
the ache of an unopened invitation,
the shame of a borrowed book never returned.
Others stretch wide, shadows lengthening at dusk—
a father’s slow retreat into memory,
a lover’s suitcase at the door,
a hunger unnamed but familiar,
its edges sharp as a broken shell.

We press these burdens
tight against the walls of our hearts,
like postcards pinned to corkboards,
their corners curling from the weight of time,
as if the weight itself might define us,
might make us whole.

But the weight does not make us whole.
It bends our spines like young bamboo,
pulls at the seams of our smiles.
We become performers on the world’s smallest stage,
the tilt of a laugh, the practiced nod,
each gesture choreographed to say,
“Look, I am fine.”
Even as we retreat into the quiet corridors
of ourselves, the doors closing softly behind.

And yet, in rare moments—
like the first rainfall after a dry spell—
when we let the mask slip,
when we show the raw, cracked skin beneath,
something extraordinary happens:
connection blooms.
A stranger’s hand brushes yours,
a friend holds your gaze just a second too long,
and the weight shifts,
the boundary between you and the world dissolving,
like sugar in tea.

Still, the duality remains.
For every open door, there is a shuttered window.
We bury pain like heirlooms beneath floorboards,
clutching our secrets as though they were pearls
instead of stones.
Why do we hold so tightly to what hurts us most?
Perhaps it is fear—
of someone turning away at the sight of our scars.
Or the strange comfort of wounds
that fit us like an old coat,
frayed at the cuffs but familiar.

To live fully is to wrestle this duality,
to sit with the ghosts in our empty chairs
and ask them their names.
It is to trace the outline of our hungers—
for the touch of a hand across a table,
for the weightlessness of forgiveness,
for freedom from the shadows of old doors.
This reckoning is no gentle thing;
it is a garden spade cutting through rocky soil,
a lantern held to the face of the mirror.
But it is also grace,
the kind that comes with the first light of dawn,
when the world stretches awake.

For in naming our hungers, we let light in.
In saying, “This is my truth,”
we place our burdens gently into another’s hands,
trusting they will carry them without breaking.
We discover that pain, like bread,
can be shared, torn into smaller pieces,
its weight lighter in the offering.
And in the quiet reciprocity of being seen—
the nod that says, “I know,”
the touch that says, “I am here”—
we find a kind of healing.

To those who carry unseen burdens,
know this: the ache you feel is real,
but so is the possibility of release.
It begins with the courage to speak,
to uncurl your hands and let the stones fall.
And to those who witness another’s pain:
your presence can be the balm,
your listening the thread that stitches
a broken seam.

We are all, in some way,
hungry for a place at the table,
for the sound of our name spoken kindly.
The duality of connection and isolation
is not a battle but a balance—
the tide’s ebb and flow, the moon’s shadowed face.
In solitude, we learn to know ourselves;
in connection, we learn to be whole.
Together, we can scatter seeds of healing,
lighten the load, and weave a world
where burdens are shared,
where no truth is carried in silence.